I should be leaving the house Now. Windows are open. Birds are singing, and my husband is still snoozing on my watermelon couch (He says it’s pink, but it’s not) with my white quilt and my dog at his feet. Same place I found him upon my return from our writers workshop yesterday. We bored our way into oblivion last night with the screen flickering colors across our skin. Peaceful.
When I drove down our lane after workshop, I saw the first purple phlox In bloom in my “other people’s garden,” the spot I claimed back from the woods and crammed with reject plants pulled from plots belonging to more organized gardeners. The purple phlox argues with the pink and orange lilies, and they give in. Together they are perfect, dissonant as a chord in a jazzy song. I can’t remember the song’s name, but I’ll think of it.
For Now my brain is tired and full of all the stuff a writer must do and remember. Blog, Facebook, find an agent, beg your way into publishing, and write the ”thang.” Really, all I want to do is write. And so I do, and mostly it’s aimless joy. Now.
After only one day at workshop, I’m the cartoon character. You know, the famous one (cat?) who is in danger and sweating bullets, literal droplets or bullets pouring from his watering can skin. Only pages of words are pouring from my skin holes. A hard knot takes the place that once held my heart. This too will pass.
Today after another workshop day, I’ll drive down the lane again. Maybe the white lily will be in bloom, the one I forgot to plant last fall. I’d found it this May in its overturned plastic pot back by the barn. There was a bit of green showing, so I plopped it into a leftover clay vessel.
And I’ll climb onto my watermelon couch and heal once more. I’ll get up in the morning to write, and I’ll be late to workshop again.
Will another flower surprise me again at the end of the day?